by L. E. Waters
I’m rushing off a train. I keep checking over my shoulder to see who has gotten off behind me. There—two men—the same two men I ran from before, stand on tiptoes to see me above the crowd. I forget about seeing to my valise and try to get ahead of the masses. I dart into a side street and I tuck myself behind a high pile of refuse—the smell so potent I can taste it. I just have to still my breathing. Four feet scuffle down the alley and skid to a stop right before the garbage.
“He has to have turned here,” one of them says breathlessly.
Slow footfalls come around the trash and I ready to run when he spies me. He grabs the back of my coat and nearly rips the seams, pulling me up to his face—his familiar fish-face framed in long soaplocks. I jab out with my right, knocking him above his ear. He bares his teeth and lifts me up by my lapels.
He yells, “Stay away from Elmira!” Then punches me with great force on the right temple and sends me flying back against the building.
I open my eyes back up to the same cell. The visions keep changing but I always came back to the same place. Was I dead? Is this hell?
Chapter 41
I’m released the following day, yet they won’t send a doctor to see to my wounds. I wore the same clothes for the last nine days. Who can I go to in this condition? I decide with all the trouble and my mysterious last nine days that I better make my way back to New York on the train. Muddy will be a nervous wreck since I should have returned days ago. I procure a cab to bring me to the station. I buy my ticket and stow my valise while I wait for the train.
My stomach churns for something other than bread and low-grade meat, so I go in search of some stand that might sell something appealing. Desperate hawkers cry out from every direction:
“Porgies at five cents a pound!”
“Milk! Fresh milk!”
“Ere’s yer lily-white hot corn!”
“Pepperpot, righthot!”
“Yeddy go, sweet potatoes!”
“Apples here!”
I reach inside my pocket for two bits as a water-wagon creaks by dousing down the streets, attempting to combat the dust in the drought. An odd sight, since children of all ages are normally drawn to the relief of the squirting water, but not one follows the cart. I pass signs warning of the cholera outbreak on my way toward the apple cart, warning passersby of the ailments: disorders of the bowels, vomiting, severe dehydration resulting in hallucinations, ague, and convulsions. Now it all makes sense, the city is nearly empty due to disease. Most keep to themselves fearing the miasma or, if they’re ill, confined to their beds.
For a moment, I notice the similarities to my condition—
“There he is.” I hear over a cart passing by.
I turn my head and catch fish-face as he and his partner turn back toward the store across the street. Pretending all too well to be suddenly occupied with his shoe, his partner whistles up toward the ceiling. I use all the energy I have left to run with the cart and leap inside an apartment building before they can even turn back around. They run up ahead and down the next side street searching for me. I wait a minute and then take off down the other way, toward Sansom Street.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
I rush past the servant at the door yet he darts to cut me off at the entrance to Sartain’s studio. As soon as he sees my face, he freezes. “Mr. Poe, I didn’t recognize you…dressed as you are.”
I say nothing, and he allows me to step past him.
I surprise Sartain, still in his shirtsleeves, with my unannounced entrance. “Edgar! I expected you days ago? What delayed you?”
“Mr. Sartain, I have come to you for protection and a refuge.” I check out his window to see if fish-face waits. The streets seem empty, unusually empty.
He grins at first but then realizes it’s not in jest. “Of course. You can always find shelter with me. What is the matter?”
“It will be difficult for you to believe what I have to tell—that such things could be in this nineteenth century. It is necessary that I remain concealed for a time. I was just on my way to New York on the train, when I heard whispering going on behind me. Owing to my marvelous power of hearing I was enabled to overhear what the conspirators were saying. They were plotting to murder me. I immediately left the train and hastened back here again. I must disguise myself in some way. I must shave off this mustache at once. Will you lend me a razor?”
He tightens his lips and knits his brows. “Anything to help you, but I don’t have my shaving kit here.” He gets up slowly and makes his way to his bedroom, returning from his washing station with a slender pair of grooming shears. “Tell me again who you think is after you?” I reach for the shears, but he pulls it away quickly. “You seem too…nervous. It is my pleasure to assist you.”
I sit in his chair, leaning to check out the window one more time. Seeing only a few women passing under it, I lie back and relax for the first time since that last drink. I catch Sartain checking out the window as well. I close my eyes as Sartain skillfully cuts away the mustache that I’ve worn for the past five years.
“Are you certain you want me to shear you plumb bare?”
“I must, to disguise myself.” He gives me a slight smirk but straightens his face until finished. I reach up and feel my naked lip with a trembling hand. “Excellent job. A razor could do no better.” I let out a long held breath. “You are a good friend, John.”
He checks his pocket watch. “It’s nearly time for supper. Why don’t you dine with us and stay the night?”
I stand up to check out the window, pressing my new shorn face against to glass to see as far down beside the building as I can. “I left my valise at the station.”
He smiles warmly. “Then I will send my man to fetch it immediately.”
I check out the window once more, narrowing my eyes on a man, until he turns, showing me it’s not George.
“Thank you. I can think of no safer haven than with you.”
I have some time to freshen up, which Sartain applauds since the smell of the prison still clung to me. When I find the table, Sartain’s lovely wife is already seated and Sartain gives me a little wink to let me know to keep tales of my latest adventure and suspicions for later. We speak of weather, politics, and once my valise arrives, he demands I fetch my most recent version of The Bells. Sartain puts down his fork and reads the new addition, then immediately fumbles for his checkbook. I put my hand up to stop him. “You have already paid for it twice. I only wanted to improve it for publishing.”
He puts his hand up and shakes his head. “I won’t hear of it. I have paid for two different versions and, now that you have done more work and greatly improved it, I will pay you for your efforts.”
“If only all publishers were as fair as you, I might actually be able to make a living.” That brings out a chuckle from Sartain and his wife looks upon him with pride. “Well, then I shall only reward that generosity with the opportunity to read my most recent, cherished piece.” I pull out the lovely little poem, which I wrote after my last visit with Elmira.
He holds it out at arm’s length to read it without his glasses. “Annabel Lee,” he declares, and proceeds to read it aloud to the table. His wife wipes a tear away and claps excitedly at the last word. Sartain glances up to me, his small mouth agape a moment. “This is wonderful. One of your best.”
After we finish our dessert, the tremors return and it’s difficult for me to steady the shaking in front of his wife. Beads of sweat begin to drip down from my forehead and the air seems too thick to breathe. I get up to fetch my coat as Sartain removes a cigar to take to his library.
“Where are you going?” he asks, lips quivering for their tobacco fix.
“To the Schuylkill,” I reply.
He lights his cigar and grabs his coat. “Then I am going with you.”
He notices my wince as I cram my feet into my shoe. He bends to pick the other one up as investigates how worn it is. “I don’t have an extra pair of shoe
s.” He reaches for his slippers. “These will be much more comfortable.”
I slip my feet into the supple leather. “Like a lamb’s ear. Thank you.”
He struts down Chestnut Street beside me with his gibus hat high on his head and hardly notices when I occasionally glance around for Fish-face. A lamplighter tips his hat to us before reaching his wick-pole high inside the gas lamp, illuminating the dark street with each torch and his watchful presence. Sartain points his cigar at the omnibus and I nod to get on. The omnibus picks up such speed Sartain removes his gibus and folds it safely under his arm.
Sartain turns to me. “Is it true that Ms. Whitman gave you the mitten?”
“So word has spread this far.” I hang my head in my hands. “If you have any more agony to pile on me, put it on.”
He pats my back with heavy hand. “I can introduce you to a dozen better. She was a bit…off. Why the dickens did she wear that dreadful coffin necklace?”
“I forgot to ask.”
As I watch the blurring of the houses and people rushing home for supper, I think of Muddy and how worried she must be since my trip is delayed already by three days. What would become of her if Fish-face finds me again?
“Sartain, can you promise me something?”
“Anything,” he says, taking a heavy puff from his cigar.
“After my death, see that my mother gets that portrait of me from Osgood.”
“Do you know something I do not?” He studies my pallor and sweat-drenched hair. “Are you ill?”
“Ill my whole life. There is only one cure.”
“As far as I can control it, it shall be done.” He pats my knee reassuringly. I go back to the trance the rushing images put on me.
We reach the fast-moving Schuylkill River as Sartain pops his top hat back out and tips it on his regal head. I take in the fresh air and look out on the dark water. A vision of a decorated revolutionary warship appears on the water as a swan-looking woman approaches the red-coated party.
Why won’t these hallucinations cease? Am I losing my mind?
I need a drink. That would stop these images. “You wouldn’t happen to have a flask on you?”
He checks his coat’s pocket and beams when he finds a silver, engraved flask within. He shakes it, and it sounds half-full. “We will share it.”
I wonder if he partakes for enjoyment or to keep me from consuming it all. Either way, the burn calms my nerves instantly. He points up steep wooden steps to the summit of the reservoir and we follow them to a comfortable bench overlooking the river. “The moon rises, but I wished the blasted clouds would part to let some light through. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, let alone these dark steps.”
We reach the dizzying height and Sartain fidgets on the bench. “Now explain what has detained you so traumatically.”
I search his kind face and see that I can trust him with my strange tale. “I found myself in Moyamensing Prison, for public intoxication of all things.”
He does not look so surprised. I notice Sartain staring at the flask and he takes an extra- long swig.
“I don’t know what happened between one drink on the train to waking up badly injured on the prison floor—although, I have my suspicions after remembering men with malicious intentions—but a white form, an ethereal, radiant lady came to me on the battlements and called to me in whispers.”
Sartain’s face twists in non-acceptance. “Just how many glasses was this later?”
“One.” I put my finger up to him to testify. “The lady warned me that someone was after me. They were still following me. I was not safe.”
He straightens up. “A white ghost told you this?”
“Then another one came, this time a man who walked with me in my dream around the battlements. He brought me to a large caldron of molten liquid and asked me if I wished to drink. I knew it was a trap so I shook my head, knowing if I accepted, he would have placed me in the liquid to suffer a Tantalus torture for eternity.”
His lips tighten. “It was only a nightmare.”
“No, not a simple nightmare, but a visitation. He was guiding me, warning me with his sea-glass eyes.” I turn to him with fervor. “That is when I remembered it. What the white lady was reminding me of. Just as I was taking my drink on the train here, I heard two men discussing how they would dispose of me. I slipped off the train in Bordentown and boarded another for Philadelphia, but they followed me. They cornered me in an alley and knocked me unconscious.” I bring his hand up to feel the bump and scab on the back of my head. “Police mistook my injury for drunkenness.”
He pulls in his hand slowly after finding the wound. “But why would these men want to hurt you?”
“Revenge,” I say, unwilling to disclose Elmira and her fish-faced brother. “Well, a woman trouble.”
I stand up and Sartain grabs for me as if I’m falling.
“Why don’t we make our way back down to the street…slowly.”
“The air is wonderful up here though. I can finally breathe.”
“It is a little too steep for my liking.”
I concede for his comfort and he grips my arm tight as we descend, anchoring both our weights to the handrail. It seems that he is more worried about me falling than him.
“What have you been working on since I’ve seen you last?”
“I have been chosen to design large medallions for monuments in the Monument Cemetery.” His snide smile begs more questions.
“Whose monument are you designing?”
“Lafayette and Washington himself.” He raises his brows. “Strange, that I should pay such a tribute to the heroes of the patriot revolution—English born as I am. Sir Henry Clinton holds my sympathies still—poor, neglected bastard. But a job is a job, and I will do my best to create what they are hoping for, embrace my adopted nation and all that.”
“I’m sure you will.”
We arrive back to his Federal-style home and his wife has already made up the sofa in the dining room. “I’m sorry now for making my guest bedroom into a studio.”
I flop down on the bed. “No, this will do just fine. Much improved from the soiled straw mattress at the prison.”
“Shall I fetch you a change of clothes?”
I can hardly keep my eyes open. “No. I am comfortable as is. I haven’t slept for so many nights. Hopefully the lady will not visit again and leave me to some peace.”
I hear a great commotion and open my heavy eyes to see Sartain bringing three dining room chairs together for a bed. He fetches a pillow and blanket from the hallway trunk. “I’m fine. Go to sleep in your bed.” He blows out the peg lamp.
He lowers himself down and hits his pillow. “I will make sure the lady stays away tonight.”
I like the sound of his breathing as he falls asleep and my eyes relax and stay closed until late morning. I’m a new man in the sunshine. My head is clear and my eyes are light. While Sartain washes up, I go outside to his garden and press my nose in the supple grass, absorbing the earthy, rejuvenating smell. I think of my latest insane claims: warning spirits and Elmira’s brother plotting to murder me, following me all the way from New York, waiting for me while I languished in prison, and still after me now. I scoff aloud to myself.
Footsteps bring me up to my knees and I stretch my arms out wide to the rays. Sartain seems hesitant. “So glad to you are much improved. The shadows on your face have gone away, but what has changed?”
“I began at once to realize the falsity of my hallucinations.”
Relief spreads across his worried face. “Which hallucinations?”
“All of them, the white lady, the guiding man, torturing Muddy, the murderous pursuers. All a fragment of my imagination. I can only deduce they were brought on by illness—most likely cholera, I had all the symptoms.”
“It is a miracle then that you have survived. I feared if I sent for a doctor, you’d be locked up immediately and I would lose my greatest writer.”
“No ne
ed for a doctor now. I am cured and have found a new purpose in my life.” I get up and sweep the grass from my trousers. I shake his hand with a half hug of his strong shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and companionship.”
“Are you sure you are completely recovered? You are welcome to stay another night.”
“No, I have pressing matters to attend to. I will see you soon, Sartain.” I pick up my valise.
He winks and says, “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”
I wave to him as I close his iron gate, off to find another friend in the city of brotherly love.
Chapter 42
I find myself sitting outside the train station again, busy people walk right by me at their feet. I haven’t even the warning of a fainting spell. The last thing I remembered is that I was walking down Sansom Street. I check about my person and find everything I had is gone: no money, no valise, only one shoe. Who would steal one shoe? Of course, they leave the one that is badly worn. People walk on by like they don’t even care that a man suffers and is mistreated right beneath them in filth of the street. My head spins as I stand up, but I have no recent injury to explain it. The throbbing in my head returns, reminding me the remains of the disease still linger in my veins.
I shuffle down the roads in my one shoe and locate the simple office building that declares the newspaper, Quaker City.
I climb the four flights of stairs slowly, since I have to stop at each landing to keep from fainting in the oppressive heat of the stagnant stairway. As soon as I reach the print room, George Lippard dashes by me with a tablet in his hand and nearly misses me. He gives me a double take and embraces me first with joy but pulls away to study my condition. “It is wonderful to see you again, Edgar, but what has happened to you?”